Changing of the Tides
by hannahthewordsmith
Summary: After the confrontation with Moriarty, Sherlock falls into a coma and John is left to deal with a rather...interesting piece of his friend's past. Eventual SH/JW. Rated for language. Might change due to future events. Full warning inside. Now AU
1. Comatose

**This idea popped into my head the moment I finished TGG. Enjoy!**

**WARNING: In future chapters, I am planning on things happening that involve a teenager. This is just a warning. I don't know what sort of things yet, but I just thought you should know. If you don't think you can handle that, then please go back to the archive.  
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><p><em>Comatose [koh-muh-tohs] – adj. Of or in a state of deep unconsciousness for a prolonged or indefinite period, esp. as a result of severe injury or illness.<em>

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><p>John woke up dazed and confused.<p>

The first thing he noticed was the smell. It smelled strongly of anti-bacterial and death. A hospital, obviously. There was a doctor standing at the end of his bed, scribbling things down on a clipboard. He hadn't gotten a good look at him, for as soon as he opened his eyes he had to shut them again due to the fluorescent lighting.

The doctor had noticed that he was awake, and said his name. John, already feeling exhausted, cracked his eyes open. The doctor said it was a miracle that he had even survived the explosion, having been so close to it. John didn't understand. What was he doing in a hospital? Had he been shipped back from Afghanistan already? Bandages, so white they hurt the eyes even more, were wrapped tediously around his arms and torso. How badly was he hit? Reaching up to his face, John was relieved to not feel the scratchy fabric. The doctor, who had noticed, chuckled and said that he must have turned away from the fire.

The soldier in him was still confused. Upon questioning his bafflement, the doctor took on a worried expression. He strode over and shone a light in John's already aching eyes.

"John," he had said steadily, "you were in an explosion. Remember?" John had nodded, stuttering over how obvious that was. He mentioned Afghanistan, and how he didn't understand why he wasn't in the clinic there. "John," the doctor's voice was sympathetic, "you haven't been in Afghanistan for a very long time. This explosion happened here, in London. At the pool center."

The memories rushed back with a wave of vertigo, and the doctor's hand was on his shoulder as the room spun. Moriarty, the pool, having a bomb strapped to his chest, Sherlock pointing the gun-

He gasped. "Sherlock! Where's Sherlock, is he alright?" The questions came tumbling, never-ending, from his mouth. The doctor chuckled again –although John was confused as to why he thought his partner's well-being was a laughing matter- and patted his shoulder.

"He's fine. No fatal injuries." The smirk disappeared. "However, I fear that he may have fallen into a coma." John felt his heart in his throat. No, no. _No._ Sherlock was tough. He wasn't supposed to fall into comas! He hadn't thought that Sherlock could become that injured at all.

"Can...Can I go see him?" The doctor –Doctor Thornton, judging from his name tag- looked him over with a hum.

"I think that you should rest for tonight, and then go see him tomorrow. How does that sound?" John scrunched his face, but nodded anyway. "Alright. I'll be back in a few hours to check on you." The doctor gently patted his shoulder again. "You should feel lucky. None of you should've survived that explosion." With that, Doctor Thornton turned on his heel and clicked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

John looked lazily around his room. Just as bland as any other hospital room. Only there were several vases of colorful flowers scattered around, making the doctor wonder how long he'd been unconscious. Glancing outside, he noted how it was nighttime. He shouldn't be expecting any visitors, seeing as the appropriate hours for visitation were long gone. John groaned and let his head fall back against the pillow. Sherlock. In a coma.

Well that's just bloody brilliant.

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><p>Many people visited him the next morning. Mrs. Hudson, of course, with a vase full of bright yellow sunflowers. She had placed them on the windowsill and hugged him, gently but lovingly. God, John had forgotten how much he appreciated his landlady.<p>

Mycroft was next, with a "Get Well Soon" card and a chocolate bar from the vending machine. Harry, who had been clean for the three months John was unconscious (seems as though he had a coma of his own), visited with Clara. His sister looked close to tears.

"I hate seeing you like this, John," she had whispered into his good shoulder. "I just hate it." Clara had smiled sadly.

"Oh John," she had chuckled, "always getting yourself into some sort of trouble." John gave her a half-smile.

Greg Lestrade and, to John's surprise, Sally Donovan stopped by next. Sally was carrying a couple of daisies while Greg had his own hand-made card.

"My niece made it for you," he explained shortly, rocking back and forth on his heels. John had met Zoey, Greg's niece, only once, but the girl had seemed to be infatuated with him. John smiled at the stick figure drawing of himself and the poor, but legible, handwriting, and thanked Greg. He left shortly after. Sally, however, lingered behind.

"Hopefully you've learned your lesson," she reprimanded, but her departing smile was kind and gentle.

It was almost midday by the time John had been able to leave his bed. Doctor Thornton had told him Sherlock's room number, 212, and sent him on his way. John still couldn't leave the hospital itself, but at least he could move around.

Approaching his friend's room, he could hear a voice drifting out of the cracked-open door. A girl's voice, young-sounding, yet very gentle and soft.

"-shouldn't have told my Algebra teacher to bugger off, but I'm sure you know how Algebra teachers can be..." The sentence was left hanging, and there was a sigh. John took that chance to gently crack open the door a little more.

There was a teenage girl sitting at Sherlock's bedside. He couldn't see her face, but from what he could tell she was pale, with dark brown hair in a set of twin braids. Her jumper looked dark blue from the back, and her Chucks appeared worn out. He could see that she was just barely holding his bandaged hand, lightly stroking the back of it with her thumb.

"I wish you weren't in a coma," she whispered, her tone sad, "maybe then we could have a real conversation." She laughed quietly. "You stupid man. What have you done this time?" John chose this moment to make himself known, opening the door all the way. She stood quickly, turning to face him. Her stance was guarded, like she was ready for a fight. "Who the bloody hell are you?" she demanded, her voice nice and strong now.

"I should ask you the same question," he replied calmly. "I would also like to know why you're holding my friend's hand." Her stance relaxed, and she straightened a little.

"You...you're friends with him?" He nodded and she blushed, scratching the back of her head sheepishly. "Blimey, mate, sorry. For, you know, cussing at you."

"That's not really cursing, compared to what I've heard." She smiled and seemed to fully relax. "I'm John, John Watson." He held out his hand and she took it, shaking his hand.

"Emily. But call me Emma. Or Millie. Or, you know, whatever else you can think of." John mentally settled on Emma. It fit better. "I'm this stupid bloke's," she jabbed a thumb over her shoulder at comatose Sherlock, "loving daughter." John's eyebrows shot up high on his forehead.

"Sherlock has a daughter?" She smiled a little.

"Yeah. He doesn't like to talk about me much. Not let people know he actually has a heart. Knocked up my mum back in uni, he did, then left us because he 'wasn't ready'." She shrugged with an eye roll. "I don't let it get to me." He noticed that she did have resemblance to Sherlock. The sharp, angular features and arrogant air about her that could only belong to a Holmes. Her eyes were what startled him. One was a baby blue, while the other was the same bright green as Sherlock's.

She had obviously noticed his shocked expression, because she giggled. "Heterochromia. It's s'posed to be genetic, but I guess it skipped my mum's generation." Emma glanced over her shoulder at Sherlock, her expression softening. "How long do you think he'll be out for?" John blew air from his mouth as he thought.

"Could be a while, really. I was out for three months." Her happy expression cracked a bit. Her smile twitched, and the color in her eyes dulled slightly. "But that's just me. Sherlock's strong. He'll be up in no time, I'm sure." Emma nodded, but she didn't look very convinced. She sat down in the chair, staring at his peaceful expression.

"I think that this is the most calm I've ever seen him," she murmured. "At least his face isn't all scrunched up, like usual." John watched as she took his bandaged hand, staring at the fabric as she ran her thumb over it. "The doctor said that he must have blocked his face with his hands. You know, to keep away the fire." Her lower lip trembled as she reached forward and brushed a lock of black hair from his eyes. "He could've died," she whispered, her voice sounding so broken. It was then John realized that Emma really could be Sherlock's daughter. It was obvious she cared for him.

"Yes, but he didn't," John replied, dragging a chair and sitting next to her. "I have a very firm belief that he'll be okay." Emma looked up at him with a small smile. "I'm starving, aren't you?" He stood abruptly. "Come along; help an injured old man to the cafeteria." Emma's smile grew and she stood as well, taking the arm he was holding out.

"I'm sure you aren't that old, John," she replied as they wandered out of Sherlock's room towards the elevator. Soon enough they were entering the cafeteria and Emma was buying them both turkey sandwiches. "Don't even start with me," she began as John opened his mouth to protest, "I'm not going to let an 'injured old man' pay for his own food." John found himself genuinely smiling for the first time since he woke up.

Sitting down at a table, John noticed that Emma seemed increasingly impatient. "If you want to go back up to Sherlock, I assure you I'll be fine." She chuckled softly.

"It's not that, don't worry." She fidgeted for a moment. "I'm just...waiting."

"For what?" Before Emma could answer, they heard a booming voice.

"Mr. Watson, there you are!" John turned to look at Doctor Thornton. "The nurse was worried where you'd gone." He noticed Emma and smiled. "Hello Miss Holmes."

"Doctor," she replied tersely. The smile faded and Doctor Thornton turned back to look at John.

"Are you feeling well?" John nodded.

"Quite so, thank you." The doctor nodded as well, plastering on a smile.

"Wonderful! I must be off, please call me or the nurses if you need anything." He didn't give John a chance to respond as he turned and walked off.

"Bastard," he heard Emma mutter, and she blushed at the reprimanding look that he gave her. "I don't like doctors. Never have."

"I'm a doctor." Emma smiled over at him.

"Then I guess you're an exception, aren't you?" John felt himself smiling. She looked down at her watch. "Bollocks! I have to go! I'm late for practice!" She grabbed her messenger bag and her jacket. "We'll be seeing much more of each other." She winked in a very Sherlock fashion. "That I can promise you." Then, with a flourish of her scarf, she was gone, already turning the corner of the cafeteria exit. John sat back in his chair, staring after her in slight shock.

He knew she was telling the truth. They would definitely be seeing more of each other.

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><p><strong>To be honest, I have no idea what to think of this chapter. Some parts I hate, some parts I just love, etc.<strong>

**However, it all comes down to the lovely readers! Please let me know what you think, so that I can improve!**

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	2. Care

_Care [kair] – verb. 1. To be concerned or solicitous; have thought or regard_

_2. To have an inclination, fondness, liking, or affection_

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><p>Emma was breathless when she entered Sherlock's room the following week.<p>

John and Emma had been getting to know more of each other, and John was surprised to learn that Sherlock sent her money every birthday and Christmas. If he had enough money to pay the rent and send his daughter a hundred pounds every holiday, then why would he need a flat-mate? "Someone to keep him company, I suppose," Emma had mused when he voiced the question aloud. "I live with my mum in Durham, so we really don't see much of each other. He gets a bit...difficult if he doesn't have someone around and there's no case."

"Sorry I'm late!" she exclaimed, draping her messenger bag over the back of her usual chair. "Band practice ran a little late today. Brian couldn't keep his bleedin' hands off of Drake's bass, so Jenny and I had to keep them apart for an hour." She shook her head with a winded smile.

Emma constantly talked about her band, _Onto December_, which was an Indie band. The only Indie band that John actually enjoyed. "We don't play _just_ Indie," Emma had emphasized when John expressed his doubts. "We're like those bands that mix up our genres. We play a little of everything."

"If Brian likes Drake's bass so much, why doesn't he play it?" Emma snorted as she pulled her chair over to the table.

"Please. Brian can't play the bass to save his life. He can't play any instrument, really. That's why he's a drummer." John laughed, wincing as pain shot through his stomach. Doctor Thornton said it might always be like that due to an internal bruise. "Anyway, Jenny was able to finally get us a gig! I'm...ridiculously excited." John grinned.

"That's great, Emma! When is it? I want to go." The hospital had released him days ago, he was currently staying in the flat for free, until he can get back on his feet (bless Mrs. Hudson's heart).

"On Saturday, at this local restaurant. We're only doing a couple of covers. It's an audition, to see if we're good enough to actually get paid to perform there." John smiled, setting up the chess game. While Emma and John got along great, chess was one of the few things they actually had in common. With Emma's intellect –obviously inherited from her father- and John's natural strategizing skills, the game was always intense.

"I'm excited to hear how it goes. First move is yours." He watched Emma's hand collide with her chin in thought. "How's choir?" She made a face.

"Eh, it's normal. I'm just sick of doing scales. It's all because of David. Choir is the last place he needs to be." John chuckled and moved his bishop forward. He could practically see the gears turning in Emma's head. "How are you?" She paused her train of thought, looking up at him. "Is your stomach feeling any better?"

"Define 'better'," he replied, grimacing. She frowned, her nose scrunching in distaste. "It's just a bruise. All bruises heal eventually." Emma nodded, moving the same pawn forward again.

"I had this one bruise on my arm that didn't heal for a whole year. Blimey, it was hard playing football those months." Emma, John learned, was an avid football player, and watched it on the telly in Sherlock's room. Sometimes, after coming from the toilet, he would hear Emma telling Sherlock the play-by-play after the game ended. John was more of a rugby fan, and both of them would watch each with each other when at the hospital.

"I heard that coma patients can hear what's going on around them," Emma had explained when John caught her talking to Sherlock one afternoon. "So, I'm trying to keep him entertained." At one point, she'd brought with her a copy of _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ and began reading, straight from the book.

"When's your next game?" he questioned, cursing mentally as she swiped his bishop. "I feel so guilty for missing your last one."

"Don't be," she muttered, adjusting her scarf, "we played like shit." She then realized he had asked her a question and looked up. "This Saturday morning. So I have football in the morning and band at night."

"Are your Saturdays always so hectic?" She chuckled.

"Usually. Sometimes I get lucky and it rains, so I get to miss a game. I'm really hoping for a thick layer of snow this year. It's not that I don't like football, but sometimes a girl just needs her beauty sleep. Like this one time when Jenny went to sleep at one in the morning on a school night..." And there she goes. John had noted that Emma had a habit of rambling on and on about any particular thought that happened to enter her already scrambled mind. He wondered if that was what the inside of Sherlock's head was like, and that he was just better at keeping it all in.

It was two minutes later, when Emma was on the subject of swimming pools, that John cleared his throat. Emma quickly pressed her lips together, blushing.

"You shouldn't let me keep going like that!" she scolded. "It just gets worse the longer you let me ramble on like that." John just smiled and shrugged a shoulder. "Your move, you stupid bastard."

"Hey, you should learn to respect your elders," he reprimanded jokingly.

"I'll be sure to help you across the street during our next walk," she replied sweetly, her eyes daring him to keep arguing. Normally, the pair could've gone on like that for hours, but there was a small knock on the door. Emma turned and gasped, jumping out of her seat. "Uncle Mycroft!" she exclaimed, hugging him tightly around the waist. He smiled softly, a rare gesture, and gently hugged the teenager back.

"Hello Emily. John." The doctor nodded politely at his friend's brother.

"Where have you been this whole time? I would've expected you to at least visit once."

"I was in Dublin, right after I visited the last time. I just couldn't find the time, my dear." Emma shrugged.

"That's alright. At least you're here now." Mycroft chuckled and nodded in agreement.

"How is he?" Emma's shoulders slumped and she skulked back to her seat.

"He's better. Been like this for almost four months now. The moronic doctor doesn't know when he'll wake up." Mycroft frowned, then smiled a little.

"Yes my dear, but what have you always been told about doctors?"

"Not to trust a bleedin' word they say!"

"Oi!" John protested, half hurt and half amused. Emma threw him an innocent glance before turning to look back at Mycroft.

"Where's Grandmother?" she questioned, sounding a bit hurt.

"I'm afraid she couldn't make it, but she told me to give you this," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a necklace. The charm was a golden football, glinting in the fluorescent light. "That is fifteen karat gold, my dear Emily." Emma gasped and was practically bouncing as Mycroft helped her put it on, exclaiming how it must have cost a fortune and how she really shouldn't have. "Nonsense. She said to consider it an early birthday present." Emma's smile was so wide that John was sure her cheeks were hurting.

"It's beautiful! Tell her I said thanks." Mycroft nodded in response. He strode over to their chess game and whispered something in Emma's ear while eying the board, making John narrow his eyes suspiciously. Emma's eyes widened slightly and she grinned, quickly stealing away his knight, which he had moved, and somehow knocking out his king. "Haha! Checkmate!" John's jaw dropped.

"That's cheating!"

"On the contrary, dear Watson," Emma replied with a cheeky smile. "It'd have been cheating if Uncle Mycroft moved the pieces. He simply gave me advice on where to move them myself." John rolled his eyes.

Teenagers.

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><p>John shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as he stood outside the restaurant, debating whether or not he should actually go in. It looked cozy enough, but he didn't feel comfortable walking into restaurants alone anymore. Not since he met Sherlock.<p>

"John!" He turned and found his savior. Emma was running down the sidewalk with a guitar on her back, waving her arms wildly. Well, more like flailing. "Hey! What'rya doin' standing out in the cold? C'mon!" She looped her arm through his and dragged him into the restaurant. "You sit there." She took hold of his good shoulder and shoved him down into the seat in the first row. "Have you got the camera?" He nodded, holding it up for her to see. Emma had come up with the idea that John can come to her football games and band gigs, so that when Sherlock woke he could watch them all.

Suddenly he was being pulled back up again and yanked onto stage. Emma pulled him behind the curtain, where three other teenagers were waiting. One was a girl with white-blonde hair and twinkling silver eyes. The second was a boy with flaming red hair and a bright smile to match his jovial cerulean eyes. The last was a rather serious boy who stayed behind the other two. His light brown hair was spiked at the front, and his brown eyes surveyed John almost judgingly.

"John, this is Jenny," Emma gestured to the blonde, who waved with a smile, "Brian," the ginger grinned, showing off his teeth, "and Drake." The last boy simply nodded politely. "Guys, this is John Watson."

"The guy your dad's been sleeping-" Brian never finished his sentence (or question, perhaps), for Emma had lunged forward and clapped a hand over his mouth. He was obviously grinning, from the way his eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Yes, Brian," Emma said icily. "That guy." She turned to John. "Alright, go sit down. We'll be starting soon." John narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but turned and retreated back to his seat anyway. The buzz of restaurant chatter kept him occupied until the manager of the restaurant came out and had a long, lengthy speech introducing _Onto December_. Finally, the curtain was pulled back to reveal the four. Emma looked up and smiled, meandering to the front of the stage. John turned on the camera and pointed it up to her.

"Hello there. I'm Emma, and as the manager so kindly pointed out, we're _Onto December,"_ she said, fiddling with her guitar. "The songs we'll be playing today are really just covers of other songs. We haven't been through enough to write our own songs." She flashed a cheeky grin and several people chuckled. "This set is dedicated to my dad," John looked up, "who has been in a coma for the past four months." A sad smile crossed her face as she backed up a bit.

The song started out soft, with Jenny playing the piano and Drake playing smashingly on the cello. Emma approached the microphone.

"_Heart beats fast,_

_Colors and promises__._

_How to be brave,_

_How can I love when I'm afraid...to...fall__?_

_But watching you stand alone,_

_All of my doubt,_

_Suddenly goes away somehow.__  
><em>_One step closer."_

John could hear other instruments joining them, but was unable to see due to the lighting. Brian was singing back-up while Jenny's fingers flowed seemingly effortlessly over the keys.

"_I have died everyday__waiting for you._

_Darlin' don't be afraid,_

_I have loved you for a_

_Thousand years._

_I'll love you for a__thousand more."_

The rest of the set was just as amazing, with a mixture of soft songs and fast-paced songs. And each of them took turns singing the songs. If the manager didn't give them that job, then John would have to have a few words with the man. At the end, the band received a standing ovation. He met the group backstage to find Emma frowning.

"I kept messing up in the bridge!" She rubbed at her throat irritably. "I knew singing that first song was a bad idea."

"What are you talking about?" John exclaimed in disbelief. "I thought you were great!"

"I'm just saying what Dad would say," Emma replied with a small shrug, latching her guitar case.

"Oh please," John muttered, turning off the camera as they stepped into the cool air. "I'm sure that Sherlock would've thought you were amazing."

"Oh, I know he would've. But, Dad would also comment on how my voice cracked during the third line in the bridge, or how I played the wrong chord during _Blackbird._" She shrugged and looked up at him with a smile. "It's his way of saying that I did great. Criticizing me is how he cares." John ran the words through his head. Sherlock criticized him often. Did that mean he cares?

"Possibly." John looked over to Emma, who was grinning. He realized that he'd spoken aloud. "If he was willing to blow up a bomb to save you, then he must care at least a smidgen." She paused, nose scrunching in thought. "Which is...fantastic. Dad needs a good man like you in his life." The double meaning was painstakingly obvious and Emma walked faster, a coy grin plastered across her lips. John was left standing in her dust, his mouth in the perfect shape of an O. Then, he rolled his eyes with an irritated scoff.

_Teenagers._

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	3. Home

**Hey guys! I have a tumblr! Follow me at hannahthewordsmith .tumblr .com (delete the spaces) for updates on all of my fanfics, including information on up-and-coming ones.**

**Oh, and can you just completely dismiss the coming season of Sherlock in regards to this story? I'll be keeping some factors, sure, but overall this is now AU.  
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><p><em>Home [hohm] – noun. A place in which one feels the safest.<em>

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><p>The next time John saw Emma, nearly two weeks later (due to a family trip with Mycroft), she had her own hospital room.<p>

"This is bloody ridiculous!" He smirked at the fact that he could hear her from four rooms down and walked a bit faster. Just a bit. Approaching the doorway of her room, he peered inside. The other three members of _Onto December_ were scattered around the room, snickering, while Mycroft argued with Doctor Thornton. Emma was in the bed, shouting obscenities and curse words that would put a sailor to shame. "It's a freaking concussion! Jesus Christ, you're all so dramatic!"

"What happened?" John asked Jenny, who grinned.

"We were in a minor car accident. Emma's got a concussion and a sprained ankle. The doctor wants to keep her overnight, but I'm sure you know how she is with hospitals." John chuckled and nodded. "If it weren't for her dad being here, I would've driven us to the other hospital."

"What about the rest of you?" John inquired. Jenny held up her left arm, where a bandage was wrapped around her wrist.

"Brian bruised a rib and Drake had a very minor concussion. Emma got the worst of it, apparently." Jenny then giggled. "They had to chop off her hair in order to get to the wound." John's eyebrows shot up and he looked over to Emma. Her hair was, in fact, looking like someone had taken a butcher knife to it. Chunks of it were cut off, especially in the back. John grimaced and moved to sit at her bedside.

"How about," he muttered, "once you get out of here, I'll take you to a barber? Get your hair fixed up? Would that make you feel better?" Emma looked over at him, and then looked away as she stubbornly nodded. "Good. Now, it's just for a night or two. I'm sure you'll be fine."

"Yeah, yeah." She crossed her arms over her chest.

"At least you weren't stuck here for three months," he offered. The statement seemed to work, for Emma relaxed a bit after that. She glanced up at Mycroft who, along with Doctor Thornton, had watched the brief exchange. John made eye-contact with Mycroft, who looked at the doorway for a brief second. John nodded just the slightest bit.

"John, might I have a word?" The soldier stood without speaking and followed Mycroft out into the hall. He could feel Emma's eyes burning holes in his back. "You and Emma...you seem to be getting along quite well." John nodded.

"Yes, quite so. We bond over the fact that we both care for Sherlock, I suppose." Mycroft's already softened eyes seemed to soften more. John was almost surprised, and then he realized that this was Mycroft's brother and niece he was talking about. He knew Mycroft cared about family, although he tended not to show it in public.

"Would you perhaps be able to take her in for a night?" John's eyebrows elevated. "I have to attend a party, and Emma has been staying with me for the past few months. It would only be for a night, she isn't very high maintenance, I assure you." John chuckled.

"Alright, alright. I wouldn't mind having her stay at the flat for a night." John then remembered Emma mentioning that she and her mum lived in Durham.

"What about her mum? I would assume that she'd have come to see Sherlock. Wouldn't Emma be with her?" Something seemed to lock up in the Holmes standing in front of him. John suddenly couldn't tell what Mycroft was thinking. Not that he really could before.

"We do not talk about Emily's mother." Now John knew something was definitely wrong. He had learned, over the past month or so, that when Mycroft talked about Emma, there was a fondness in his voice that John had never heard before. But at the moment, Mycroft sounded like he wanted nothing to do with the teenager in the hospital room. Which made him all the more curious about Emma's mum.

"Why not? I assume you must speak to her, considering Emma lives with her in Durham." Mycroft's eyebrows knitted together.

"What...is that what she told you?" John nodded, both wary and curious. "Interesting." Then, the older of the Holmes brothers was striding past John and into the hospital room. "Excuse me; I would like a word with my niece." The room slowly emptied and Mycroft shut the door behind him, along with the curtains. John could hear shouting, more from Emma's side, and peeked in the little space between the curtains.

Mycroft had an arm wrapped around Emma's shoulders, looking genuinely worried. There were shining lines on Emma's cheeks as she buried her face further into her uncle's chest. She must have said something, for Mycroft just nodded and squeezed her tighter. John frowned, wondering what it was about Emma's mother that seemed to have such a negative effect on the Holmes family.

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><p>"Emma was in a car accident, that's why she isn't here talking to you herself." Sherlock's chest merely rose and fell in response. "She's fine, just a sprained ankle and a minor concussion. They chopped off all her hair, though. I'm taking her to the barber shop over the weekend." John pressed his lips into a thin line, shutting his eyes for a moment. "Why'd you have to go and shoot that bomb, huh? For such a genius, you can be an idiot."<p>

He could almost hear his friend chuckling, or shooting back a witty reply. John flexed his fingers, resisting the urge to reach out and take Sherlock's hand. The bandages had been off for a week now, the burns were nothing but light scars, barely noticeable on the consulting detective's pale skin. "I mentioned Emma's mother today. It was a mistake." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, not noticing the figure in the doorway. "I'm curious to know more about her, although it would be rude to pry. If you were awake, you probably wouldn't say much either."

"Because there isn't much to say." He looked up at Emma, who limped into the room and dropped into the nearest chair. "My mum...she has issues. I've been staying with Mycroft for the past few months. Since Dad got landed in the hospital, actually. She's been...she's been in jail for a year and a half." She ran a hand through her choppy hair, sighing. At that moment, she did not look fifteen. She looked old and weary, like the things she had seen made her wise.

Perhaps they did.

"They put me in a home, a terrible home. The couple was abusive and neglecting and we couldn't say a word. What would the word of a bunch of kids have against a couple of adults? I was there until they were able to get into contact with Uncle Mycroft. The day after Dad was checked in, as a matter of fact. I could've sworn Uncle Mycroft was close to tears." She smiled softly, staring at the foot of Sherlock's bed. Like she was here, but not completely. As if she was lost in a dream.

"Blimey, those were the best months of my life. He took me everywhere. Toronto, New York City, Rio de Janeiro, Tokyo. Hell, he even took me to Russia." She leaned forward in her seat, her bi-colored eyes twinkling. "Do you have any idea how beautiful Russia is in the winter?" John shook his head. "I'll have to bring the pictures. We went and watched the snow building contests, visited that ice hotel, everything." Her smiled faded and her eyes focused. On Sherlock.

"Then he told you about your dad." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah. He said that Dad was in critical condition, comatose, but that I could go see him if I would like." She shook her head, looking up at him. Her eyes seemed to burn with the pain that she felt. "Do you have any idea what it's like to see someone you care about lying there? Not dead, but not really alive, either?" John thought back to when he first saw Sherlock. He had been a little distracted with Emma, so he, admittedly, hadn't had the chance to feel that. But he assumed that if things had been different, if Emma hadn't been there, then yeah, John would've felt that heartbreak and helplessness. Truth be told, he was starting to feel it now that Emma had brought it up.

"What about when you said that he sent you money?"

"'Til Mum got screwed up, he did." John nodded a little, letting a silence settle over them.

He watched the brunette sit back in her chair, eying John as he turned to watch Sherlock sleep.

"How long have you fancied my dad?" John whipped his head to stare at Emma. She wasn't smirking or looking like she was joking. The teenager appeared very, very serious.

"Sorry? I...I don't know what..." He continued to splutter like that before Emma smirked a bit.

"It's alright if you do, John. Just...don't hurt him. He's not as emotionally invincible as he'd like you to think." John looked at Emma for a long time and she stared back with equal intensity. "You don't have to lie to me." Her voice was softer now, gentler. "I'm perfectly fine with it. You're good for him." John was about to stutter out another remark when Doctor Thornton appeared in the doorway. Emma sighed and let her head fall back.

"Bloody hell, can I not just sit with my dad for five minutes?" she demanded. The doctor rolled his eyes with a small headshake. Emma sighed dramatically. "Fine!" Doctor Thornton gently gripped her elbow and helped her up. John listened to her incoherent mumbles grow softer and softer, until a door closed and they were silenced completely. John's eyes flickered to Sherlock and he frowned. He didn't feel that way about Sherlock. Nope. He was pretty sure that he was straight and Sherlock...well, Sherlock was in a very serious relationship with his work. There was no way that he would ever like his flat mate like that.

Nope. Never.

* * *

><p>"Here we are, home sweet home," John muttered four days later, helping Emma haul in the bags she had packed. Apparently, Mycroft's little party was going to be lasting longer than they had thought. He was going to Tokyo straight after the party.<p>

She'd be staying at 221B for at least two weeks.

_At least Mrs. Hudson likes her._

He looked over at Emma to find her glancing around, resting her weight on her crutches. The barber had fixed her hair into that pixie cut fashion that seemed so popular nowadays. Emma had seemed to prefer her long hair, but was used to it by the next morning.

"I like it," she said softly. "It has a homey sort of feel to it." John nodded to himself. Ever since he stepped into the flat, it had just felt like home. "Where will I be sleeping?"

"Well, I won't let you sleep on the couch. So you could either stay in my room or Sherlock's-" He cut himself off, because Emma was giving him that look. A look that said, _"Must you really ask that question?"_ It looked insanely similar to the looks Sherlock would give him. The expression only reminded him how much she resembled her father. "Sherlock's room it is." The look slipped, replaced by a bright grin. "It's the door next to the stove." He could hear her crutches clacking away and a door opened.

John scrunched his nose and frowned as he looked around the flat. He went around the room picking up books and little notes of paper and other things of the like. After doing that, he retreated to Sherlock's room to make sure that Emma had gotten settled in, carrying her bags along with him.

Nudging open the door with his foot, he peeked in to find Emma curled up on Sherlock's bed, holding a pillow close to her chest as she slept quietly. There were barely visible tear tracks on her cheeks and her injured ankle was in a position that he wouldn't have to really move it. John smiled a little and took hold of a blanket at the end of the bed, draping it across her frame. He turned off the lamp, bathing the room in only moonlight, before he retreated from the area, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Taking a seat on the couch, he turned on the telly and made himself some tea. He found that, every fifteen or twenty minutes, he would find himself casting glances towards the door or listening for movement. But Emma didn't wake up for the rest of the football game. As far as John knew. He was out by halftime.


End file.
